


Day Four

by Crowgirl



Series: Boston 'Verse [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bad Exes, Confessions, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-22
Updated: 2012-10-22
Packaged: 2017-11-16 20:56:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/543734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>"The Club" is based on a real club in Boston; if you know the town at all, you probably know where I'm talking about. </p><p>I feel I owe the original an apology: I've made it far more sketchy and unpleasant than it is in real life.</p></blockquote>





	Day Four

This time, Castiel spends less time quietly worrying and instead worries loudly for half an hour, to Nellie’s great disgust. He even manages to make the hangover headache worse in the process. Then he gives the whole thing up, makes himself a pot of coffee and two toasted bagels, and forces himself to concentrate on work.

When he looks up and realises it is nearly three in the afternoon and Dean has neither called nor shown back up at the door, he grits his teeth and forces himself to keep working.

By five, he is dully surfing running shoe options at a local athletic outfitter website, trying to remember what shoe he had liked so much the last time running was a part of his regular routine.

If he expects this to act like a magic charm and bring Dean to the front door, he is disappointed.

Dean is still gone by the time Castiel passes from worry to frustration and frustration to anger and gives the day up as a bad job and retreats to bed with a headache and what he feels with dull certainty is a sore throat.

* * *

The ringing of the phone has made its way into Castiel’s dream before he realises it’s real and struggles upright, pawing at the handset on the bedside table.

He coughs, tries to think of words. ‘Yeah...hi...what?’

There’s a chuckle from the other end. ‘Wow, you sound human.’

‘Dean?’ Castiel coughs again, blinks at the darkened door of his bedroom, tries to figure out what the hell is happening. He glares at the alarm clock on his table. ‘It’s one in the morning!’

‘Yeah...uh...sorry about that.’

‘Where the hell _are_ you?’ Castiel is already trying to remember if he knows where the local police station is. Somewhere down--

‘Um... ‘m not exactly sure.’ Dean sounds subdued and exhausted.

‘Oh...God... uh...’ Castiel drags a hand through his hair and tries to kick his brain into working.

‘I’m sorry, Cas, I just -- I got turned around in the rain and--’

‘Rain?’ Castiel crawls out of bed and pulls the blind aside. It’s streaming down outside -- he can see streaks on the window and cold air is radiating from the glass. ‘Jesus, Dean -- how the hell am I supposed to find you?’

‘Look, I--’

‘What are you near?’ Castiel closes his eyes, rubs at the bridge of his nose with the heel of a palm. He leans forward, pressing his forehead against the cold glass of the window.

‘I...’

‘What can you _see?’_ He opens his eyes and stares out through the rain as though he can somehow see through Dean's eyes.

‘A couple of big buildings -- one’s all glass, big...triangle’y lookin’ thing,’ Dean responds immediately.

‘The Hancock Tower. All right -- um -- is it in front or behind you?’

‘Depends which way I stand.’

‘Dean!’

‘All right, all right -- uh -- look, there’s a bridge or an overpass or somethin’ between me and it -- sounds like it’s going over a highway? I can hear semis...lots of cars.’

Castiel blinks at the darkness of his bedroom and tries to picture the surrounding streets of the Hancock Tower. ‘Are...are you near construction sites?’

‘Yeah -- there’s one across the street.’

A loud rush of voices goes past wherever Dean is and Castiel has a sudden sinking feeling. ‘Are you near a club?’

‘Uh -- maybe? There’s a building down the street a lot of guys keep going in and out of. I can’t see a sign or anything.’

Castiel whacks his forehead gently against the window once or twice. 

‘Cas? What the hell are you doing?’

‘Nothing. I know where you are.’

‘Jesus, y’do?’

‘Yes. Look, go down to the club -- get out of the rain. I will come get you as soon as I can.’

‘Okay -- look, Cas--’

‘You can thank me in the morning.’ And Castiel hangs up before Dean can say anything else.

* * *

By the time Castiel has scrabbled into a pair of jeans and a warm shirt and is trying to figure out which pair of shoes is either more likely to be waterproof or less likely to be destroyed by the rain, he has woken up enough to anticipate the coming hours with a kind of grim, sinking certainty.

* * *

By the time he has trudged across the Common, across Boylston, and down Arlington to the I-90 overpass and turned onto the side street where The Club is located, the feeling has not gotten any better and he is nearly soaked through. The shoes -- his old sneakers -- will almost certainly be for the trash in the morning. Cold water is soaking through the collar of his trenchcoat and down his back. His umbrella has been turned inside out twice and he’s doubtful it will last much longer.

The Club is the only building still lit -- apart from the Hancock and Prudential buildings some streets over and one late-night Chinese restaurant at the next intersection. There are a handful of men leaning against the wall outside, pressing themselves back under the inadequate awning to shelter from the rain, alternately smoking and flirting with each other.

Castiel pauses at the corner -- he knows at least one of these men and he doubts the next thirty minutes are going to be the most pleasant of his life. He busies himself shaking off his umbrella and furling it tightly.

‘Looking for Zach?’ One of the men by the door flicks a cigarette butt into the overflowing gutter as Castiel goes to open the door.

‘No.’ 

The man shrugs. ‘He’s in there. By the bar.’

Castiel grits his teeth and goes inside.

* * *

The inside is dim, crowded with small tables, and it seems as though it should be smoky although that isn’t possible. The music is just this side of painfully loud and there are more people jammed into the space than are strictly comfortable. One wall of the room is arched glass and the night is dark and watery outside, like a landscape seen through tears.

He has no idea where Dean might be and he is bone-tired. 

He stops in the doorway and takes a survey of the room, aware that he is the focus of several pairs of eyes. 

‘Hey, Castiel...’ A tall man threads his way around a couple of the small tables, drink in one hand, and grins at him. ‘Long time, no see.’

‘David. Yes.’ _Goddamn it, Dean, where the hell are you._ Castiel forces a smile then makes himself take a deep breath. 

David was always one of the better denizens of this place -- a reasonable, good-tempered man who worked as a _pro bono_ family lawyer. He had a weakness for pretty frat boys, but he kept it legal and never talked anyone into anything.

Castiel tries again and the smile feels a little more real this time. ‘Good...morning, David.’

‘Bit late for you, isn’t it?’ David leans one-shouldered against the wall next to him and gestures with his glass. ‘Zach’s over at the bar.’

‘An excellent place for him,’ Castiel responds before he can think it would be better to say nothing.

One of David’s eyebrows shoots up. ‘Not the flavor of the month any more, C?’

‘I imagine you know who is.’

David shrugs. ‘Maybe.’

‘Have you seen...’ Castiel gives the ill-lit room a last sweep and gives up in despair. Dean might be standing two feet from him and he would never know it. ‘I am looking for someone.’

David makes an expansive gesture with his glass. ‘Good place to start.’ He mimes looking at his wristwatch. ‘Better hurry, though -- closing time soon.’

‘A young man -- a little taller than me.’ Castiel waves a hand aimlessly over his head, water running off his cuff and onto his hair, and manages to indicate that Dean might be anywhere from a few inches to several feet taller than himself. ‘Blond -- green eyes -- wearing a dark leather jacket. He is probably...probably very wet.’

‘Oh, _him.’_ Before Castiel can take in the significance of David’s tone, the tall man waves at the bar with his glass and pushes himself off the wall. ‘You were asking about flavor of the month?’

Castiel threads through the crowd after David, mulling over his choice of words. He knows precisely what David is referring to, of course; Zach’s habits had never run to constancy. Or honesty.

Dean has his back to the room, one foot hooked over the rail of a stool, his elbows on the bar, and Zach is leaning in towards him in a way Castiel finds very familiar. David glances between the pair at the bar and Castiel, then shrugs, and pushes himself in next to Zach, dropping his glass on the bar and waving at the bartender. ‘Brought you a new friend, Zach.’

‘What? I--’ Zach glances over and sees Castiel.

The combination of emotions that chase over his face would be comic if Castiel were in the mood to be amused.

The confusion passes in a matter of seconds, though, and then he smiles. ‘Ran into your houseguest, Castiel.’

Even in the dim light, Castiel can see Dean’s back tense. 

‘It would have been kind of you to give him directions home.’ Castiel shakes his head as the bartender looks at him inquiringly.

Zach’s eyebrows go up. ‘Home?’

Dean twists around, one elbow still on the bar. ‘’m sorry, Cas.’ He is half in shadow and the words could refer to almost anything.

‘I imagine I will survive a soaking,’ Castiel says.

‘So what kind of hotel are you runnin’, Castiel?’ Zach leans back against the bar, a move Castiel knows is calculated to show off the hours he spends in the gym. 

‘I do not run a hotel, Zach. I offered to help out a friend. Are you ready to go, Dean?’

‘Oh, yeah.’ Dean takes the last sip from what looks like a coffee and moves to slip off the barstool. Zach reaches out and catches his wrist.

‘Wait a second, Dean -- I thought we were havin’ a good time, here.’ There’s a slight slur in Zach’s voice that Castiel recognizes.

Dean looks back at him and, for a minute, Castiel thinks the younger man’s face looks unfamiliar: hard, set, not angry but close to it. _‘You_ were.’

‘Y’know, I’ve got a spare bed, too--’

‘Yeah?’ Dean pulls his arm free and shrugs into his jacket. ‘Betcha know what you can do with it.’

Zach frowns and David moves to say something, but Zach gets there first, leaning forward and waving a finger between Dean and Castiel. ‘So what’ve you got goin’ with Castiel, anyway? Some kinda...live-in houseboy thing?’

 _‘Zach--’_ David sounds genuinely appalled and grabs Zach’s shoulder.

‘’Cause I could make it _way_ more worth your time --’ Zach waves his hand expansively and nearly slides off his stool. ‘I mean, Castiel _looks_ like a good time -- I’m with you there -- that mouth’a his -- but...but... ’ He fumbles in the pocket of his coat and comes up with a crumpled bill, waving it at Dean. ‘I got a twenty right here that says _I’m_ a better time than--’

Dean steps forward but Castiel gets there first. He digs the handle of his umbrella against the crotch seam of Zach’s jeans and he can tell he’s hit the right spot when Zach jerks upright, mouth open, but no sound coming out. ‘Treat my friend like a ten-dollar whore, will you?’ He has more ready, quite a _lot_ more, several _years’_ worth of more, but Zach leans slightly forward and grins.

‘So...what? He’s worth forty? Just like you?’

‘And we’re done here.’ David lets Zach slump back against the bar where he only barely catches his balance -- the bartender is kind enough to grab his shoulder and keep him upright -- and moves to block Dean’s involuntary step forward. ‘It’s not worth it, my friend.’

Castiel’s ears are ringing. He can see out of the corner of his eye that David has a hand on Dean’s shoulder, pushing him away from Zach. It almost sounds as though Dean is growling; there may be words in the rough burr of his voice but Castiel can’t understand them.

‘C’mon, C... Leave him to what he deserves.’ David catches Castiel’s arm and turns him around. The bartender lets go of Zach’s arm with a disgusted look and Zach slithers off the stool, giggling to himself. Just as Castiel allows himself to be turned and pushed towards the door, he sees the bartender look up at a burly man standing by the kitchen door and jerk his chin towards Zach.

* * *

Once they are outside -- David disappears somewhere between the bar-room and the front door -- Castiel tries to raise the umbrella but it only goes half-way and then freezes in place, refusing to go up or down. He regards it grimly for a minute, then stuffs it into the nearest trash bin and, without turning to see if Dean is behind him, strides away down the rain-dark street. 

Somewhere inside his chest he can feel anger, rage, something approaching fury even, but he cannot quite -- touch it. It is as if it is held inside a glass cage, restrained for the moment.

Dean appears beside him, matching his pace silently, hands stuffed deep in his pockets and shoulders shrugged against the rain.

As they turn off onto Boylston Street and towards the gardens, he says quietly, ‘’m sorry about that, Cas.’

‘It was not your fault.’ Castiel hears his own voice as steady and calm with a certain amount of surprise. He was sure he had been about to scream. 

‘I was talkin’ to the bartender and he just-- showed up.’

‘He does that.’

‘Here --’ Dean’s hand nudges into Castiel’s damp pocket and, with a sense of growing unreality, Castiel feels bills -- a tightly folded pack of them -- between his fingers.

‘What the--- what the hell is _this!’_ He stops, turns, grabs Dean’s arm. ‘What did he make you do!’ The glass is breaking and he is ready to go back to the bar, find his umbrella, and beat Zach senseless.

‘What?’ Dean blinks at him in the rain. ‘No! Nothing!’ He shakes his head, rain spattering off the tips of his hair. ‘Jesus, Cas, it’s _your_ money! He wouldn’t shut up about how he got it out of you so I stole his wallet!’

‘You...’ Castiel stares at him, then pulls the wad of bills out of his pocket. ‘You...’

‘I put it _back._ He won’t notice ‘til tomorrow.’ Dean shakes his head again, wiping rain out of his eyes. ‘C’mon, do you want to drown standing here?’

* * *

The rest of the walk is spent in silence, Castiel struggling against tiredness, cold, and the growing scratchiness in his throat as well as nearly overwhelming waves of laughter. It is just so _ridiculous_ \-- that he should _finally_ have given Zach at least part of the lecture he deserved in a _bar-room_ over a _stranger_ who will be leaving in a few days and probably never think of Castiel or Zach again.

But... that does not feel quite true. 

Dean is not a stranger -- at least, not as much a one as he was. If nothing else, what stranger would have committed petty larceny for Castiel! No-one had ever bothered doing much for Castiel -- Zach certainly had not-- 

Castiel groans inwardly and steps in another puddle, splashing himself to the ankle which would be very uncomfortable if he were not already soaked to the knee. 

He can hear Dean’s steady footsteps just behind him; on the narrower sidewalks of the North End, walking single file is just about the only way to go.

And comparing Zach and Dean will get him _nowhere_. A single almost-kiss and a couple of looks mean _nothing_. If they did-- 

But they do not and pretending that they do would get him nowhere and, God, why does his throat feel as if he had had sandpaper for dinner instead of soup?

* * *

Castiel stumbles going up the last flight of stairs to the apartment and flails to catch himself on the bannister. Dean catches his elbow from behind and steps beside him, steadying him. ‘Whoa -- watch out. Here -- give me the keys.’

He takes them out of Castiel’s chilled fingers before Castiel can say anything and has the door unlocked, the hall light on, and Castiel inside before he can protest. Not that he wants to, particularly. His head is starting to feel like someone has stuffed a cotton-wrapped bell in each ear and is striking them regularly and his eyes ache. 

_Catching cold from going out in the rain is a myth,_ he tells himself firmly and sneezes.

‘Not if you had one before -- Jesus, Cas, why didn’t you _say_ you were sick?’

Castiel blinks at Dean for a minute, mildly puzzled as to how the other man heard his thought before he realises he must have spoken aloud. He begins to struggle out of the soaking folds of his coat. ‘How would you have gotten home--’ There is that treacherous word again. ‘--without me.’

Dean catches the sleeves of the soaking trenchcoat -- somehow, he is already divested himself of his own jacket and slipped out of his boots -- and slides it off Castiel’s shoulders. He holds it away from himself, letting it drip on the rug, then hangs it on the rack. ‘Here’s an idea: you coulda given me the address? There’re these things called _cabs--’_

Castiel snorts, then sneezes again and begins to toe off his ruined sneakers. ‘At this time of night? In this weather? And how would you have paid for it? Oh--yes--’ He digs in his pocket and comes up with the sodden wad of bills which he waves wildly in Dean’s face. Dean takes a half-step back, blinking at him. ‘You could _steal_ the fare!’

‘It was _your_ money!’

‘I _gave_ it to him--’

Dean gives a dismissive snort and turns to hang up Castiel’s coat. ‘The man’s a dick. He shouldn’t get _money_ for that. He should get his ass kicked.’

‘Then kick his ass -- but don’t do something he could arrest you for!’

‘Hey, is that permission?’ Dean turns back, a half-grin on his face. ‘’Cause I’ll go back to that bar--’

‘Don’t you fucking dare!’ Castiel flings out an arm to block the way.

Dean holds up his hands, stepping back, the smile fading. ‘Cas, I wouldn’t--’

‘You do not _know_ him -- you do not know what he is like and you should _not--’_ A brief, painful burst of coughing interrupts what Castiel feels was going to be a very good dressing-down and by the time he can breathe and speak again, Dean is steering him into his bedroom. ‘Dean--’

‘You can finish yellin’ at me later,’ Dean says firmly, guiding him to sit on the edge of the bed. 

Castiel tries to keep standing, not wanting to soak the last clean sheets he has. Dean seems to get the idea but, instead of leaving the room, starts to unbutton Castiel’s shirt.

‘Dean!’ Still awake enough to be appalled, Castiel smacks Dean’s hands away.

‘What?’ Dean looks up at him, tilts his head. ‘C’mon, Cas -- I’ve seen you watching me.’ He grins. ‘Or do you have tattoos you don’t want me to know about?’

 _‘You_ kissed _me,’_ Castiel counters and has the pleasure of seeing a faint blush over Dean’s cheekbones.

‘Yeah, okay, so...’ Dean scrubs a hand over his wet hair and shrugs. ‘Yeah. Yeah, I did.’

‘And then left after you said you would explain -- explain _what?_ That you felt _sorry_ for me? That you wanted to pay me back for helping you?’ The glass cage holding back the anger is fracturing in all directions. ‘Well, you’ve done it.’ 

Castiel throws down the wet money with a sodden slap on the bedside table and Dean stares at it, then at him, green eyes unreadable under a soaking fringe of hair. Castiel swallows hard against the sharp scraping in his throat. ‘You’ve paid me back so -- so you can go and...and fix your car and get on your way to California if that’s what you’re really doing.’

‘You think I lied?’ Dean’s voice is quiet, so soft that Castiel can barely hear it above the blood pounding in his ears.

‘No -- yes -- I -- you are _never_ where you say you will be and _why_ do I care about that!’ Castiel throws his hands in the air and they land with a wet smack against his thighs. ‘Why do I care what you think about me or -- or Zach or -- _why_ did I invite you into my house! Why -- why--’

‘Because you’re too damned nice for your own good.’ Dean reaches out and flicks at Castiel’s half-open shirt. ‘But you’re gonna get pneumonia if you stand there dripping.’

Castiel stares at him for a long minute but cannot make anything out of his expression and slowly, sulkily, begins to unbutton his shirt. ‘That is an urban legend.’

‘Getting sick? Hey, where do you--oh, got ‘em.’ Dean is rummaging in Castiel’s dresser and turns around with a dry t-shirt in one hand and flannel pajama pants in the other.

‘Getting sick from being out in the _rain,’_ Castiel informs him, then ruins his own point with a rich sneeze that shakes his balance so badly he topples back onto the bed.

‘Yeah. Sure it is.’ Dean is bending over him before Castiel can do anything and before he can do more than squawk in protest warm hands are skinning off his soaking jeans and -- more humiliating -- his shorts before quickly replacing them with dry sweatpants. _‘Dean--’_

Dean snorts and says nothing. He keeps his head down but Castiel sees the flush on his cheeks deepen and has a wild momentary thought that Dean likes what he has seen -- probably didn’t see -- _might_ have seen -- possibly had seen -- 

_Oh, God--_

Another sneeze shatters what little focus he has left.

‘Lie back -- here -- God, you’re _freezing_ \-- why the hell didn’t you say somethin’?’ Dean mutters as he pushes the bedclothes aside, urges Castiel back between the sheets, and covers him over as carefully as if Castiel were completely incapable of looking after himself.

‘What was I supposed to say?’ Castiel curls against his pillow, blinking blearily up at Dean. 

‘Here’s my address, moron, find your own goddamned way home?’ Dean suggests conversationally, crouching down by the bedside. 

Nellie, only now realizing that something has been going on, meowls loudly from the doorway. 

‘Oh, God...’ Castiel groans, pulling his pillow half over his head. He hears Dean chuckle and the mattress shift as Dean uses it to shove himself up.

‘You go to sleep -- I’ll take care of her.’

‘Dean.’ Castiel pushes himself up, nearly making it to sitting before a wave of dizziness forces him back down. ‘You...’

‘What?’ Dean, almost at the door and with Nellie weaving urgently between his feet, turns back. 

Castiel pushes himself up in the bed, squinting at Dean. Dean is still rain-drenched; he had only stopped to take off his coat and boots. His jeans almost squish when he takes a step back towards the bed and his whole shirt front is dark with rain. Dean had helped _him_ before he-- but _why_ would he--

‘I’ll be here in the morning.’ Dean snaps off the light and adds in the sudden rush of darkness, ‘I promise.’

**Author's Note:**

> "The Club" is based on a real club in Boston; if you know the town at all, you probably know where I'm talking about. 
> 
> I feel I owe the original an apology: I've made it far more sketchy and unpleasant than it is in real life.


End file.
